


Immortal Footsteps - Maglor Through History

by Erulisse



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-16
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-12 06:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 20,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/487516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erulisse/pseuds/Erulisse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Maglor has heard a rumor that Numenor is no more.  He goes to the coast to try and check it out and comes across things that remind him of people he knew in his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life's Flotsam

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.
> 
> Reviews are always appreciated.

Chapter 1 - Life's Flotsam

 

Maglor first heard the rumor as he was passing through the southwestern part of Dol Amroth, thinking about whether he wanted to book passage to Umbar or stay in Gondor, wandering east towards Minas Tirith. Supposedly unusual amounts of flotsam were washing up onto the western sands. The large quantities gave rise to the speculation of the fall of a great land, a civilization, a gift from the Valar. Wooden spars, pieces of broken glass, fabric, trash, even bodies were being washed ashore throughout the western shoreline, carried by the sea currents from Númenor.

He headed west towards the nearest beachhead town to try and separate the truth from the rumors. Walking into the marketplace he listened as people talked and he looked at the goods that had been found. Several of the more enterprising merchants had apparently 'liberated' merchandise from the death and trash-filled detritus. It was while fingering a finely-wrought metal medallion picturing Glingal that he finally heard the ring of truth from the gravelly voice of a sailor.

“I was there,” he heard a rough voice say. “The capt'ns insisted we board the ships and leave immediately, we didn' know why they was so rushed. But we left the island, headin' in a flotilla for the western ports of Gondor. Then we were overtaken by the storm. I've never lived through a storm like that before, and hope I never will again.”

Maglor shifted closer to the speaker who had paused to finish his mug of ale. The sailor had no sooner put his empty glass down than a full mug was put in front of him, replacing it. He took a swallow from the new mug, and then continued his tale. “I was on top of the main'sil, pullin' up the canvas for such were the Capt'n's orders. I happened to look behind us.” He shuddered, picked up his ale and took a large swallow, then said roughly with tears in his voice, “I saw a great wave, so high that it blocked out the sky, fall down on the island behind us. The sound was deaf'nin and the wind and wave caused by the crash of that wall of water took us in its grip, shakin' us hard and snapping one o' the masts. We nearly lost 'er that day, and the flotilla was broken apart. I don' rightly know how many ships survived, only that when we finally made landfall, eight still remained to be found.”

Maglor turned back to the merchant to replace the medallion, but pulled it back to him, taking one more look at it. On the back of the metal disc was a familiar hallmark. Instead of returning it to the table, he bargained for it, finally claiming it for a small sum. Holding the medallion he walked over to the food stalls, then moved over to a bench carrying a meal of meat and bread with a mug of ale to wash it down.

'Númenor is no more,' he thought. 'Once more the Valar have struck, for only their might or that of Eru himself could have destroyed that great island.' His mood was as bitter as the ale he was drinking. 'Why would Elros' kingdom, given to the second-born with such hope, be wiped from Arda now?' he wondered.

He turned the medallion over and over in his hand, examining the image of the golden tree of Turgon on the front, and his niece Helyanwë’s hallmark on the obverse side. He had lost track of her after Sirion had been destroyed. He hoped that this was a recent work of hers; that she had survived and thrived after he had passed her bleeding body, lying in the mud of Sirion on that accursed day when he and Maedhros had galloped away with two young boys who would become as sons to them.

So many relations and friends were gone. Now the land to which his son Elros had sailed, taking up its rule with so much hope in his heart had been buried beneath the waves; even as Helyanwë’s beloved city of Gondolin, and his own grassy lands near Himring, had been buried by Ulmo's waters after the War of Wrath. 'How many more times,' he wondered, 'will the things I love be drowned?'


	2. Wings of Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Travelling through the Misty Mountains while the Ring was destroyed, the news was still brought to Maglor, and the earth still celebrated the destruction of Sauron’s evil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.
> 
> Reviews are always appreciated.

Chapter 2 - Wings of Song

  


The gap in the mountains stretched ahead, the only pass through this part of the Misty Mountains.  Looking forward, he saw that far above him the path continued on above the tree line.  The trees next to the path were a mix of conifers and rowan trees.  He reached out to a rowan and, asking its permission, breaking off a small portion and tucking it into the strap of his covered harp.  Rowan was used for protection against evil – physical or spiritual.  Up here, walking on the bones of the mountains, he felt he could use all of the protection he could get. 

  


The peaks and cliffs were riddled with goblins and an extensive system of caves which they used to for their roadways and their homes. The Woodland elves under the command of King Thranduil had made great inroads in clearing out the goblin caverns near Mirkwood, but he was far beyond their territory or influence.  So far he had managed to avoid the roaming packs, but there had been two scouts that he had been forced to destroy when it had been either kill or be killed. 

  


Once, two of Lord Manwë’s eagles had swooped down on a small group of goblins that had been following him, scattering them and throwing them off his trail.  He had waved his appreciation, and when he had trapped some hares later on, had left two carcasses on an open flat stone as a ‘thank you’ to his winged allies.  But he felt, in his heart, that the eagles had helped him because of their own personal generosity, not by the orders of the Vala of Air. 

  


Suddenly the ground shook, nearly throwing him off his feet.  Maglor reached out blindly, grabbing a nearby branch to help him keep his balance.  The first wave was followed by another series of trembles.  He had never felt anything like this in the mountains before, although along the seashore he had sometimes experienced earthquakes. 

  


He felt an unexpected lightening in his heart.  The sorrow and hopelessness that had been increasing year after year as Barad-dûr had been rebuilding and expanding seemed to be receding.  The evil throughout Middle Earth had been growing, spreading into areas of the land which, before this, had been relatively untouched.  Now it seemed that things were going to change again, and for the better this time.  ‘Why do I feel this optimistic?  What has happened?’ he asked himself. 

  


No additional aftershocks came, so Maglor released the branch with his thanks and continued his progress towards the highest peaks far ahead of him.  Two days later, as he was passing near the eyrie of one of the Great Eagles, it left its nest, flying down and landing slightly ahead of him, just off the path. 

  


“Son of Fëanor,” the eagle croaked.  “I bear news to lighten your load and brighten your heart.” 

  


Maglor bowed deeply in front of the bird.  “You pay me great honor by speaking to me.” 

  


“Yes,” the eagle agreed. 

  


Maglor thought to himself that the eagles had as much humility as their vaunted Lord Manwë, but deemed it wiser to say nothing.  The eagle ruffled its feathers and preened below its outspread wing, then focused once more on the elf in front of him. 

  


“Know you that the Ring of Power, that which had been on Sauron’s hand and then lost by Isildur in the rushing waters so long ago, has been destroyed,” the eagle cried.  “A hobbit from the land called the Shire carried the Ring to Mount Orodruin, casting it back into the flames where it had been born.” 

  


“Blessed be,” Maglor exclaimed.  There was little that could happen in Endorë that shocked him after such a long time, but this piece of news had just done so.  A hobbit had succeeded in achieving the impossible and a great evil had left the land. 

  


He bowed again towards the great bird.  “Thank you for choosing to share this news with me.  I suddenly feel hope for this damaged land and have you to thank for this renewed optimism.  May the wind always rise under your wings.” 

  


The bird bobbed its head in acknowledgement and spread its wings, taking off to return to its nest.  Maglor resumed walking over the mountains, but that night, he took out his harp and played a song of praise before beginning to compose a song of thanksgiving.  Over the years to come, the song that he began composing that night became one of the most popular of those that praised the end of the evil in the south. 

  



	3. Chapter 3 - In the Steps of Pharoah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor, now an overseer at the Tura Quarry, watches the boats getting loaded with the latest load of limestone blocks. The water pulls his memories back to another shore and white ships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.
> 
> Reviews are always appreciated.

I am walking along the quay next to the river watching as the limestone blocks are being loaded into the cedar and papyrus ships. Each of the ships is able to hold one of the large stone blocks, although they sink quite low in the water and are unwieldy to row and steer because of the great weight of their cargo. Sails are used sparingly but are necessary since the quarry is across the Nile and slightly upstream from the landing site. Days featuring soft winds from the highlands are ideal, on those days the boatmen smile. But they have performed this act hundreds of times over the years and are highly skilled, no matter the weather. 

The dressed blocks will be placed in the pyramid which is currently under construction near the western shore of the river, at Giza, just north of Memphis. It has been a long process of construction, but it is nearing its end. 

I started work as a quarry laborer more than fifteen years ago, but I’ve been promoted several times and am now an Overseer. I am responsible for one section of the quarry, making sure that my team of laborers meets our daily quota of limestone blocks. I also supervise a team of skilled polishers who specialize in the smooth finished capstones that Pharaoh so highly prizes. These must be shaped to exacting standards of size and finished to a reflective finish. I report directly to one of several sub-Viziers who report to Pharaoh’s Ear who reports to Pharaoh himself. 

We quarry two types of limestone blocks here in Tura quarry, the rough, square blocks for the interior walls, and the highly finished capstone blocks; so highly polished that the sun blinks from her reflected brilliance. The interior walls and galleries also feature smoothly fit stones from this quarry, but these are cut to their final shapes by trained teams at the construction site, thus assuring each stone is an exact fit. 

Although most of the stone used in the pyramid is limestone, there are also selectively used granite slabs, massive, heavy, and resilient. These became the seven stress-relieving capstones above the main chamber and the three large slabs in the antechamber. The granite was sailed downriver from a quarry near Aswan, a long way from the Delta region. 

I go across the Nile to Giza every now and again to view the pyramid and examine where our next load of stone will be placed. The architecture of the pyramid is a marvel of engineering, featuring a high entrance moving into a split passageway a short way inside. The upper passageway eventually leads into a long high-vaulted gallery, leading up to a small antechamber with three upright granite slabs, and finally to the main chamber featuring five granite stress-relieving capstones on top of it with two more angled above the stack as if creating a roof. This design will protect the interior chamber from possible damage from earthquakes which sometimes strike the area. 

The pyramid and everything about it is monumental. I have enjoyed working on this project, but I have already been in Egypt for too long. It is time to move on. 

Looking at the men loading the boats and a group of younger boys standing to the side watching them, I suddenly see another landing and another body of water, white ships and dark waters. I am shivering under the hot sun, a chill has suddenly hit my heart. 

Despite the Ages between now and then, I remember all too well the words of my father. Maedhros had begged him to fulfill his promise and send the ships west for Uncle Fingolfin's people to use. More than two-thirds of the Noldorin people who had followed us from Tirion were still on the western shore. Instead of listening to my brother's pleas, Father had pushed him aside and thrown the first torch into the nearest white vessel. 

I was confused and hesitated, thus joining in the burning through my inactivity and numbness. My Father's personality was strong in both its force and its madness. I felt that the swan ships of the Teleri were beautiful and that such beauty should not be destroyed, but I still threw a fiery brand onto the decking of a nearby vessel. Such was the power of my Father's will. When I looked back towards my family I saw that they all stood together except Maedhros. He stood to one side, hands clenched at his side and a look of hopeless anger on his face. 

He did not come close to our father again until Fëanor was fighting for his life, besieged by the minions of Morgoth. At that time it was Maedhros' mighty blade that was instrumental in his rescue. Father died shortly thereafter from wounds he had received in this short but violent battle, and my brother became the head of the family, the third of an immortal line suddenly beset by death. I still remember how saddened and empty my brother's gaze was when Morgoth's forces offered parlay. I feel to this day, although I never asked him directly, that he rode into the clutches of our Enemy because the two he had loved the most were gone. Our Father had died, and Findekáno was separated from him by the angry seas and the Grinding Ice. It was fortunate for him that his lover lived up to his moniker, 'The Valiant' and dared the journey by foot, finally rejoining us in Middle Earth, on the other side of the Helcaraxë. 

I shake my head harshly. I cannot daydream while the stone is being loaded, being less than attentive could cost lives and ships. I push the land of Endorë as it had existed before both sun and moon had appeared back into the far rooms of my memory. 

Yes, it is time to leave. I cannot allow myself to forget that I am not of their kind and cannot age as they do. I do not want to be considered a sorcerer. Even though it possibly wouldn’t cause my execution for witchcraft here in Egypt, it would certainly complicate my life. I am unable to teach others how to become immortal and eventually Pharaoh or the priests would order my imprisonment and probably my death. 

I notice that the energies of the men are starting to flag. Pulling my flute from my waistband, I begin playing a serenade of thanks to Hapi for the Inundation to come. I then move smoothly into a hymn to Khnum, another of the Egyptian deities who control the Nile, this one featuring a ram’s head. Living this close to the great river it is always wise to thank the gods for a safe voyage to the other shore, for the annual Inundation that allowed the crops to grow here in the desert, and for the blessings of not falling victim to the crocodiles or hippos that frequent the waters. The men catch my tunes and begin singing, setting a rhythm. Their energies are raised again; the power of music has once more proven true. 

As I look back on what has been accomplished here I am thankful. I have enjoyed my time in Egypt, although some of their practices are strange to me. Once again, even on these far sun-kissed shores I have found the rhythms of music. Breathing a prayer of thanksgiving to the Valar into my tunes, I continue playing. The sun shines brightly above me and the waters of the Nile lap gently against the quay. For the moment, I am at peace.


	4. Chapter 4 - Knives in the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor, making his living selling pottery and wine, lives on a street near the Theatre of Pompey. Because of the shop's location, he is one of the last Roman citizens to see Caesar alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.
> 
> Reviews are always appreciated.

I awakened early that morning, rolling out of my wrapped blanket. Temperatures are still a bit chill in the mornings, but I know I will miss the coolness in a few short weeks. A _cogere_ has been issued and the Senators are gathering near the Theatre of Pompey. I imagine them talking quietly in small groups while proceeding slowly through the gardens towards the curia. There is time. Usually Senate sessions began with a dawn sacrifice to the Gods, but the time for this meeting has been set to begin at mid-morning. 

I have my fire built up and my wares out for the Senators and other possible customers to view. I have already sold two pierced goblets with metal insets to Minucius who also promised to return later for several more as a gift for his mistress. This sale alone pays for my food for more than a week. I also sold several pottery mugs, filled with heated watered wine. Thus far I am well pleased with sales today. 

There. A small group of people is walking up the avenue coming towards me. From the stripes on their tunics and togas it is apparent that these are men of status. Glancing closer at the group, I identify Caesar walking briskly towards the Theatre. I see him stop abruptly for a moment, it appears as if he is responding to a comment from one of the other men accompanying him, and then he continues walking quickly down the street, passing in front of my store without slowing. I see him turn the corner heading for the Theatre gardens and the Curia and I return to my potter's wheel. 

Suddenly cries of “Assassin!” and “Caesar has been cut down,” come to my ears. My survival instincts, highly honed after these many years, are telling me to lie low and be prepared to leave quickly. The Empire is perched upon Caesar’s standard, but if he has fallen, civil war could quickly spread through the populace. I feel that the wisest thing for me to do would be to pack up my store and leave Rome for a week or two, or maybe longer. 

I ask my next door neighbor to watch my store for me while I run towards the Theatre to find out more information. I run up towards the corner and, turning it quickly, I see Caesar’s bloody body lying on the lower portico steps, his toga and tunic showing rents where blades had cut through the fabric to the body beneath. I don't dare stay in the area. I wasn't responsible for his death, but don't want to be arrested because I happen to be close by either. The Senate meeting has been cancelled and everyone has left the Curia. I hear a voice in the next street declaring loudly _“Quirites, in libertatem vos vindicavimus”_.* 

Running back to my shop, I advise my neighbor to lock his doors. I have a small estate in the countryside, a house and a vineyard where I store my larger items and my harp. I'm thinking that country living might be indicated for a while. The city can be very uncomfortable and dangerous if civil war breaks out and mobs gain the rule. I load up my hand cart with my potter's wheel and my goods. I keep very little actually inside of the city's walls, so I can pack quickly. Taking up the handles, I move out into the street, locking the shutters behind me. 

-0-0-0-0-

Much later I heard that Caesar’s body was left undisturbed where he fell for more than three hours before it was gathered up for cremation. The Roman citizens, who loved their popular leader, mobbed his funeral pyre, adding more and more fuel and causing an uncontrolled blaze that damaged part of the Forum. Mark Anthony, always an orator of great power, made a rousing speech at the funeral, trying to build his power base thinking that Caesar left much of his estate to him. In this he was wrong, Caesar left most of his estate to Octavian, his grand-nephew. 

I also heard more specific information about the assassination itself. Apparently more than sixty Senators had been involved in one way or another, but Brutus, Cassius, Casca, Minucius, Rubrius, and a few others had actually organized Caesar’s death. Cimber had presented a petition to Caesar that stopped his forward motion into the Curia, and Casca was the first to stab him with a knife. Eventually he was stabbed more than twenty-three times. After hearing some of the names responsible for Caesar’s death, rioters attempted to attack the homes of Brutus and Cassius, but after a hard-pitched battle they were finally driven back. 

Yes, I said to myself while sitting down with a glass of wine, there was certainly something to be said for country living. I looked over my peaceful vineyards and smiled. 

 

A/N  
* “Citizens, we have restored you to liberty!” Latin translation and supplementary question/answer sessions on Roman policies and government were supplied by Clodia Metelli. I bow in her direction and send full thanks to her.


	5. On Slavery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surviving the sack of Rome in 410 AD by the Visigoths may not be easy for Maglor, but he’s still alive.

On Slavery

 

In my long life, I have often been a warrior, as frequently wielding a sword or bow as my harp or flute. Today, as I glance back over my shoulder towards the fabled seven hills and see the tell-tale bright colors of flame and the roiling darkness of smoke, I experience a sudden desire to live, not to haunt Mandos' Halls. 

Rome has fallen, and I, just one more body in a long line of shackled prisoners, am once again a slave. Slavery can offer life and uncertain protection. It also carries the elusive possibility of advancement in ideal circumstances. I turn my head away from my previous life and set my jaw firmly, determined. I will prosper in the court of King Alaric. I will continue to live.


	6. The Power of Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mongols recommenced their invasion of the Rus in late 1237. Only one town was spared, and no-one knows why. This is historical fact. But why was this town spared?

The Power of Song

_It is written that the Mongol invasion of the Rus recommenced on December 31, 1237 with an army of more than 35,000 Mongol and Turkish warriors invading modern-day Russia, Ukraine and Belerus. The Mongols were advancing to Novgorod but unexpectedly turned back at the site mentioned as Ignach Cross, of which the exact location is not known.  
(en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mongol_invasion_of_Rus%27)_

 

Maglor flung his cloak around him to protect him from the bitter spring wind and driving rain that was whistling around the city's fortifications. Novgorod was dark and silent, seemingly holding its breath in the hope that it would not grab the attention of the Mongol invaders. Even now other cities of similar size were being leveled by the horde of warriors from the southeast who were swarming over the land like a plague of locusts. The complete annihilation of Kolomna and Moscow in January, followed by Suzdal being burnt to the ground in February, was bringing the terror of a possible dismal future to all who were huddling behind Novgorod's walls. 

He turned, walking briskly to the corner guard-tower. Swiftly descending the steps he exited through the door and proceeded towards the home of the Prince. The Mongols were not conquering the Rus, rather they were eliminating everyone and everything that stood in their path. Twenty years before they had been appeased and had stopped their northward movement, but this year their rampages had recommenced. The Rus prince of Novgorod knew that he had no hope of holding out behind his walls, no matter his brave words to the people. Now Maglor had to convince him to allow him to bring the battle directly to Batu Khan. 

A short time later found him discussing his strategy with the Prince. “Here,” Maglor spoke firmly, his finger pointing at Ignach Cross. “Here is where we should dig in and try to hold them. Perhaps, if all goes well, the few who may go on towards Novgorod will be turned back by the forces that you will send to accompany me.” 

“Are you sure of this path of action, my friend?” the Prince queried. “Even though I have seen you work marvels I hesitate to place you against these people. Their swath of destruction has been wide and thorough.” 

“I ask you to have faith in me, my Prince,” was Maglor's response. “The terrain there will favor the smaller number of forces that you have available. However, I still hope that I will be able to convince the Khan to look elsewhere.” 

The Prince threw up his hands. He had been trying to talk Maglor out of his plan on and off for several days, but the minstrel refused to give way. He was still insisting on carrying out his plan, even though his Lord believed it was suicide. 

“Is there nothing I can say that will sway your mind? You are throwing your life away in a cause that is hopeless. How can one man, even one as unusual as you, turn away thousands of hardened warriors?” 

“My Prince, it has been my joy to serve you and before you, your father. It is time for me to leave your service. If by so doing I can save this city and its people, and you yourself, my Lord, then I shall unhesitatingly walk into the mouth of the dragon without fear or regret.” 

Tears filled the eyes of the Prince. He was young and had lost his father less than two years previously which had allowed him to gain his current title. Maglor saw that a second loss so soon might be difficult for the young man. Pulling him into a strong embrace, he whispered into the Prince's ear. “Do not despair, my Lord. Care well for your people, marry happily, have strong sons and beautiful daughters, and celebrate each day of your life. This is a gift that I give to you – that you shall live, and that because of your love, your city will also live.” 

He pulled away from the youth and gripped him by the shoulders. Pulling their foreheads together, he softly said, “Trust me.” 

Maglor released the Prince, took his cloak up from the fire andirons where it had been drying off, and walked to the corner of the room. There, nestled next to a stool in the dim light, stood his harp. Once more he picked it up, a friend whose weight and shape were as familiar to him as his own body. The harp had survived against incalculable odds, yet it still sounded as sweet as the day that his father had put it into his hands. He placed it into its carrying cloths, and left the room. The Prince stood on the far side of the hearth with his arms wrapped around himself, but even though his body was immobile, his eyes followed the minstrel’s every move. 

Going up to his room, Maglor changed into his most comfortable boots and his ceremonial clothing, the clothing of a bard. From his drawer he took a single neckpiece – a naturally pierced shell that had been given to him, eons before, by one who was as dear to him as his own son would have been. The harp and the pendant were the only things of his long life that he counted as valuable. All else could be replaced. He tied the shell around his neck. Once again he would be leaving everything behind him. He looked at the sword in its stand, but knew that he could not bring it with him if he would succeed in his task. 

In the courtyard below, the Captains of the Guard were organizing the small group of soldiers who would accompany him to Ignach Cross. Taking a last look around the room, he opened the door and walked through it, closing it softly behind him. He had been happy here, but it was one more place of many he had left in the ages since he had followed Fëanor across the sea. 

 

-0-0-0-0-

 

After three days of walking, the small group of soldiers and the world-weary minstrel finally arrived at Ignach Cross. Here, he ordered the captains to see their men well placed for a defensive stand. If he was unsuccessful, the men would be fighting a rearguard action against the troops of Batu Kahn. If, on the other hand, he was successful, there was always a chance that a small number of troops might disobey the Khan’s orders. In that case the guard would be the only thing between the invaders and their city. After sharing a small meal with some of the men, he gathered his things and walked onward towards the forces of Batu Kahn. He was a solitary elf facing more than 7,000 Mongol warriors. 

Cresting a small hillock, he saw the enemy's forces spread out in front of him, claiming the landscape as their own by sheer numbers. Unwrapping his harp, he tuned it carefully, then began walking towards the host, Singing and playing as he went. The words of the Song of Power flowed from him and were carried wide by the power of his Fëanorian harp. At the back of his mind, in a partition that he felt he could examine more closely later, he recognized that the wind played with his hair, then picked up slightly, carrying the tune a bit farther. Later he would wonder if Lord Manwë may have arranged for some small intervention on his behalf. But at this moment he was intent on the Song because to lose that focus would be to lose his life and that of his city. 

Maglor paid little attention to his surroundings, concentrating on the words that he was singing and the tune that he was playing. After a time he stopped, then looked directly in front of him. There, standing fiercely before a functional but decorative portable pavilion, was Batu Kahn himself. Maglor sank to his knees, bowing low before the Mongol warrior, abasing himself in the hope that by doing so he might save Novgorod and its people. 

“The Great Khan wants to know who you are and why he should not kill you now,” a voice asked, sounding from the Khan’s left side. 

“I am merely a minstrel, a man of power as the music allows,” responded the elf. “I have come to the Great Khan with a proposition.” 

“And what is that ‘proposition’? Do you not think that the Great Khan can have whatever he wishes, even your death? There is nothing you can offer him that he cannot merely wave his hand to have. If he wanted you dead, you would be dead before you could draw one more breath. If he wanted ten warriors to take their own lives, their bodies would be hitting the ground before his hand returned to his side. What do you have to offer him, m i n s t r e l?” The contempt in his voice dripped like poison from his lips. 

“My proposition is for the ears of Batu Kahn alone, not for the likes of minions like you,” Maglor responded. He quickly rose, catching the sword that was suddenly descending towards his neck before it had dropped more than a few inches. “The ears of Batu Kahn alone,” he repeated while forcing the swordsman to release and drop his blade. 

“Halt!” Batu Kahn strode forward and looked up into Maglor’s eyes. The elf was careful to meet the gaze of the Khan without fear while continuing to hold back one of the highly trained warriors with what appeared to be little effort. 

The leader stood directly in front of him and carefully looked him up and down, taking in his height, slender appearance and pointed ears, along with the cradled harp and the fact that he bore no visible weapons. “How did you manage to come through all of my warriors to my pavilion without an outcry? What magic did you make?” 

“My magic is my song, and that magic can be turned to your purposes if you listen to me and heed my advice. If you do so, your name will be on the tongues of the sons of your sons and you will be remembered and revered for hundreds upon hundreds of years to come.” 

“Come into my pavilion, musician. Tell me of this Song you speak of,” and the Khan turned and led the way to the silken-walled tent. “No-one else is to enter, just the musician.” The voices of the Khan’s advisors were immediately raised in concern and panic, but the leader refused to listen to any of his advisors, striding into his tent and expecting Maglor to follow him. 

 

-0-0-0-0-

 

The Khan and the elf were closed up in the pavilion for hours. Food and drink were called for and consumed. The dulcet tones of the harp were heard, and their two voices were heard, although the words spoken were unintelligible by those surrounding the pavilion on the outside. 

Near dawn, when the faint pink of the upcoming sunrise was just painting the horizon, the two men left the tent and stood facing the east. Maglor held his harp, and as the sun rose so did his voice, singing a hymn of his joy and his prayers to the Powers as he did every morning. The Khan’s voice joined his and their vocal accord reflected the agreement that they had come to overnight. 

After the paean at sunrise was complete, Maglor sat down upon the ground, gently playing his harp while Batu Khan explained to his generals that they would be heading directly west from their camp, not taking the northwestern direction that would bring them to Novgorod. 

“But Lord,” one of his advisors said. “We had planned to attack Novgorod and then turn west from there, continuing towards Hungary.” 

The Khan, listening to the music subconsciously without paying attention to it, turned to the advisor. “Novgorod is out of my way. The musician promises me that if we go west today, Hungary will fall quickly to our forces, but if we delay, even by as much as a single day, aid will arrive for our enemies and our western plans will come to naught. We go west. Immediately. See to it!” 

Maglor breathed a silent prayer of thanks to the Powers who had seen fit to train him in Songs of Power. Novgorod was safe. Even though his long life in the East had been tiresome and often dangerous, it was moments like this that made it worthwhile. He had made a promise and he would keep to it. Until the Khan had won over Hungary, Maglor would stay and travel with him. But afterwards, he would leave and return to the sea. Perhaps there would be a ship for him at long last.


	7. Passing It On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor is given a great gift by Copernicus. Who will he pass it on to?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.

Passing it On

 

An ungainly figure quickly turned the corner of the stone building, almost crashing into a merchant hurrying to the marketplace. “My apologies,” a lyrical voice gasped out before continuing on through the town square at a breakneck pace. Maglor was late for a meeting, and it would not do to be late with Professor Doktor Copernicus. 

He had worked for the Doktor since the young man had been promoted to the position of Canon of Frauenburg Cathedral in 1512, two years before. It was Maglor's responsibility to make sure that everything was stocked, clean, and ready for the mass, that music was written and appropriate to the liturgy, and that Copernicus himself was fed and reminded to dress for the mass because he tended to lose track of time when thinking about the variety of subjects that so fascinated him. Today Maglor had forgotten his musical scripts in his loft room, and had run back to get them for the organist. Thus, the near collision as he turned the corner to the Cathedral at full speed. 

He had been invited to join the Doktor for dinner after the service. Although several important people would be staying (and Maglor would play dinner music while they were meeting), Copernicus had hinted that he wanted an after-dinner conversation with the musician. 

He slowed up when entering the Cathedral door. Doktor Copernicus would not be happy to see him running through ‘sacred’ space. He walked across the central ave and through one of the side rooms. Climbing up the stairs at the room’s back, he left the music on the organ bench, then walked back down to find the Doktor and make sure that he was ready for the service. After mass he sat in the darkened corner, playing his harp softly while Copernicus conversed glibly with the scholars that had been invited for that evening’s meal. 

Maglor was confused. He thought he had been doing a good job for Copernicus, yet the Doktor had requested that he stay after dinner for a conversation. Perhaps the funds had been depleted and he would lose his job? It wouldn't be the end of things for him; he had worked at thousands of jobs over the many Ages since throwing the Silmaril into the sea. But, he was comfortable here and enjoyed both his work and the intellectual discussions he had with the Doktor. Later that night, as everyone left the Cathedral, Copernicus held onto his sleeve lightly, indicating once more that he should linger behind the others. When the door finally closed, the Doktor turned towards him. 

“Come, my friend. Let's have a glass of wine and talk,” and Copernicus led the way back to his chambers. He poured two glasses of dark red wine and settled back in his leather chair. “You are troubled, are you not?” he asked the elf. “I want to assure you that I find no fault with your job performance, in fact, you perform much above my expectations.” 

Maglor breathed a sigh of relief. 

“I have noticed that you are not like other men,” the Doktor continued. Maglor immediately was on guard. He had not lived this long to have the Inquisition come and torture him to death for being a demon. 

“No, friend, I do not wish to cause you any anxiety or fear. But I feel that you know more about this world than you speak of, and I also feel that you may be the correct person to pass on some knowledge.” 

“What knowledge might that be, Herr Doktor?” Maglor asked cautiously. 

“I have written a manuscript. For many years now I have been observing natural phenomena and, after working through the mathematics, I have come to the conclusion that our viewpoint of the earth in the heavens is incorrect. I have written something that I call the _Commentariolus_. It is my first mathematical formulation of a revolutionary new sun-centered astronomical theory which I have been working out. This system, the result of much observation and mathematics, postulates that the earth rotates on an axis and revolves around the sun.” 

Maglor nodded. The world had changed a great deal since the Trees had been killed and perhaps the Valar had arranged for this new configuration. He certainly could not say whether the Doktor’s observations were correct or not. “Why are you telling me about this, sir?” 

“I wish to give you my manuscript. This document could mean torture or even death for me if it got into the wrong hands. I am certain that my computations are correct. But I dare not release them until I am much, much older.” 

The Doktor rose from his chair and walked over to his large desk. Sitting down, he maneuvered a hidden panel, revealing a shelf upon which was a hand-written manuscript. Copernicus removed the manuscript and walked to Maglor, handing it to the tall elf. 

“For some reason, I feel I can trust you,” the scientist said. “Take this, and if in the future you meet someone who can take my work and push it to the next level, or even just confirm it, please, pass this on to them. In the meantime, however, you must be cautious. Having this in your possession could mean your death from the Inquisition.” 

“I thank you for your faith in me,” Maglor replied. “I will do as you request and pass this on to someone worthy of it.” He took the manuscript and secreted it in a pocket in his cloak. Bowing, he left the Doktor behind him and leaving the Cathedral, went back to his small, drafty room. 

-0-0-0-0-

Many years later he had left Poland and Copernicus far behind him.* Maglor was enjoying the warmer lands of Italy, drinking in the placid countryside and the beauty of the wine country. He had made friends with a talented but troubled painter named Michelangelo Merisi Caravaggio and had been keeping him company during his life of ups, downs - spurts of painting genius followed by volatile arguments. In 1608 and 1609, he had helped defend Caravaggio from two attempts on his life. They had left two corpses behind them and a price had been placed on his friend’s head. He had been accompanying Caravaggio to Rome to receive a promised pardon, when the artist had come down with a fever and died in Porto Ercole, Tuscany. 

Maglor was temporarily at loose ends and decided to wander the Tuscan countryside for a while before deciding what to do next. There was always a room and a meal to be had for a bard, and his harp was still his constant companion, although he also had a fine lute that his artistic friend had purchased for him with the funds from a commission. 

Word had come to him, as he was painting with Caravaggio, of a scientist in Tuscany named Galileo Galilei. Going through his small pack of goods one night, shortly after his friend had been buried, he came across Copernicus’ manuscript. He had heard that a final copy of _‘De Revolutionibus Orbium Coelestium’_ had been published the year before the Canon’s death in 1543, but he had been carrying the original manuscript with him since that after-dinner conversation so many years before. Maybe it was time to pass it on. He decided to see this Galileo Galilei and determine whether he might merit a gift of this magnitude. 

It took Maglor a bit longer than a year to track down Galileo, but finally he found him in a small house, teaching at the University of Padua. When the musician first found him, the professor was working on fastening the lenses into a fixed-length telescope. Maglor sat down and watched the master at work, taking note of how single-minded the professor was with the task at hand. When Galileo took a break, the elf engaged him in conversation, talking about the galaxy that the telescope could observe and focal lengths, lens finishing techniques, and brass forging. By the end of the day, Galileo was beginning to be comfortable with the lanky stranger who had settled so easily into his workshop. 

Over the next weeks their friendship strengthened until finally, after they had been working together for almost a year, Maglor decided to broach a new subject with the scientist. 

“Maestro, have you ever heard of the Copernican theory of the sun?” 

“You mean the theory that the sun is the center point and the earth moves around it? Yes, I’ve heard about it. I was told about a book by Copernicus and I’ve wanted to read it, but I haven’t been able to find a copy.” 

“What would you say if I told you I have something even better than that?” 

“What do you mean, Maglor? What could possibly be better than the book?” 

“Maestro, I have a handwritten copy of the original manuscript by Copernicus that he gave to my own grandfather, who passed it down to my father, who passed it down to me. I would like you to have it. It is written in Latin, so you would have no trouble reading it. Would you be interested in having this?” 

Galileo almost jumped up in excitement. “Maglor, you are joking with me, yes? You know how much I want this thing, and you are playing with my feelings.” 

“No, my friend, I would not do that to you. I have the manuscript and have carried it with me for many years looking for the right person to give it to. I think that you could do much with it, that you are the correct person to have it.” 

Galileo came to the tall elf and hugged him tightly. “Gratzi, my friend. I can never thank you enough for such an amazing offer.” 

The next day saw Maglor once more at the studio of Galileo. This time he was dressed as if for a journey, his harp and lute on his back, a small pack with his belongings at his waist. 

“Are you leaving? You are dressed as if you will journey far. Must you go?” 

“It is time for me to move on. But before I leave, here is the manuscript I promised you. Guard it and use it well. I am sure that no other could benefit more from this gift.” Maglor reached into his cloak and pulled out the weathered pages that Copernicus had pressed into his hands almost a century before. 

“Thank you for your kindness in allowing me to share your studio and your friendship over these past months. This is but a small gift in appreciation, as well as fulfilling one of my grandfather's fondest wishes.” Maglor handed the manuscript over to Galileo and left Tuscany, heading for cooler climates. 

In later years he heard that the scientist had been placed under house arrest for publishing his work based on the manuscript. And when he later found out that Galileo’s book had been interdicted, he was upset with the shallow reasoning of the Second-born. Eventually his patience was rewarded when, in the mid-1800's, Galileo's heliocentric tome was finally released to the public by the Vatican, and his theories were finally embraced as correct by a more illuminated and scientific age. 

A//N *To see one story of what Maglor was doing in the latter 1500’s check out “Dancing Fingers”, the next chapter in this series.


	8. Dancing Fingers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor, after working for Copernicus, has ended up at the English Court of Henry VIII. Will he survive the mood swings of this infamous autocrat?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.

Dancing Fingers

 

“Sirrah,” the Page panted, holding a stack of paper in his hands and trying to bow without dropping them. “The King sends these for your use and perusal.” 

I gently placed my lute on the bench to my side, reaching out to take the pages before they ended up scattered all over the floor. “Convey my thanks to the King. I shall look these over immediately.” 

I lifted the first piece of paper to read it, then noticed that the Page was carefully waiting obviously not yet finished passing on his message. “Yes?” I asked. 

“His Highness also summons you to attend him in his chambers at two bells after None. He would spend an hour with you and your lute before Vespers and asks you to choose two of these pieces to play with him.” 

“I am at his service and will attend him promptly as he requests,” I told the young boy and off he ran to deliver my message and take up the next task. Henry had no fat pages, he had them running errands for him all over the buildings and outbuildings at both Windsor and Hampden Court. But right now it was high summer and Hampden Court was where the King was in residence. As Royal Lutenist, I also went wherever the King desired. 

I took another look at the stack of music that the King had sent. Some of it was of his own composition, for he was an accomplished lutenist in his own right. Others were pieces that he had commissioned to be composed for him. I looked carefully through them all, playing short bars of a few choices, humming melodic lines of others. I was totally engrossed in what I was doing when I finally realized it was getting dark. Surely it was still early in the day? I rose from my bench and went to the mullioned window. 

My window faced west. This was by my choice, although sometimes it made my room almost unbearably hot. The bright afternoon light rarely bothered my eyes; after all I had been raised in the bright light of the Trees. I knew that I could not pass to the West, but neither could I bear to be separated from it. Thus when I had options, I always chose the west facing rooms. 

Through the window I saw that it had darkened considerably and thundering rolling clouds had gathered in the distance. A storm was blowing in quickly, dousing the sunlight over Hampden Court. I hoped that it was not an indication of the King's mood. Under the best of conditions his moods were mercurial. Under the worst of conditions his suspicions could lead him to imprison, torture or execute the person under his eye. The word of the monarch was absolute and if the King was out of sorts, people walked gingerly around him. 

Turning back to the musical pages, I lit candles wishing, not for the first or last time, that I had one of my father's lamps instead of candles which create an uncertain and flickering light that is always in danger of setting my documents on fire. Shaking my head to push thoughts of my family away, having learned by now that my longing to be with them once more was a futile wish, I pulled a standing candelabra of lights closer to my music stand and recommenced playing. 

Before I knew it the bells had sounded once and I needed to gather my music and instruments to attend the King. He always had his own lute, an instrument of superb quality, Italian made, in his suite of rooms, so I carried my own lute, an alto recorder in a side pocket just in case it might be needed, and the pages of music. The two musical selections I had chosen for the day were at the top of the stack of paper. 

Wandering through the darkened halls, listening to the wind and rain from the outside, I wondered at the strange fate that had brought me to the English Court. I had been working with Doktor Copernicus, but had left him after several years and wandered West to Germany. My musical skills had opened doors of the German courts to me, and most specifically had caught the notice of Anne of Cleves, the woman who was chosen by Thomas Cromwell to be Henry VIII's fourth wife. She begged me to go with her to the strange land, and I consented being curious about this already infamous English monarch. But the marriage turned out to be a disaster and within six months they were divorced. King Henry had ordered me to stay with his Court, however, because he enjoyed our musical interludes. In fact, he had me play at his next wedding, that to Queen Kathyrn Howard. 

She was young and vivacious, and thirty years younger than he. It did not take long before rumors of extra-marital affairs and pre-marital relations had been brought to the King's attention. As much as he might have cared for her, he would not stand for being cuckolded and his Queen was currently in the Tower awaiting execution. It seemed to be highly unsafe to be the wife of the King of England. 

There were two alert guards in front of the door to the King's suite of rooms. At their nod, I moved forward and rapped at the door which was opened by a manservant. He waved me in, closing the door behind me. I then progressed through the opulently decorated waiting room towards the King's day room and was announced and proceeded inside. Just inside the threshold I bowed deeply, rising when Henry told me to come forward. He was seated on a smaller throne than the one in the main audience chamber, his lute held by a manservant standing next to him. 

“Master Maglor,” he boomed. “Have you chosen our music for the day?” 

“I have, your Highness. Although if there would be another you would prefer more, there were several pieces of great merit in your offerings today.” 

“No, no, I trust your musical sense,” he retorted and waved me forward to show him which compositions I had chosen. 

I had picked one by an Italian lutenist that would challenge his skills, and one that was his own composition which I thought quite lovely in both its simplicity and tonal air. I thought we would begin with the simpler piece and then progress to the Italian one. I showed the two pieces to him and he chuckled. 

“Choosing one of my own to make me feel good about my musical skills?” 

“No, your Grace, I chose one of yours because it is a lovely tune that I cannot get out of my head. I would like to hear it performed by the composer.” 

He smiled broadly and waved me to a chair that was awaiting me. Taking his lute from his servant, he dismissed everyone from the room and we settled down to the music. 

He played through the first tune fully, then turned to me and we began a second time through. This time we both played the tune, but we exchanged the lead and secondary responses, harmonies and descants. The song of our lutes chased each other through the simple tune, making it something quite extraordinary. We ended together on a downbeat, matched as only several years of regular playing could achieve. 

“Superb, your Majesty. You are surely playing better than just a few short days ago,” I exclaimed. I wasn't overstating the case. The King was highly competitive and practiced when he could. 

He smiled broadly in response to my praise. Then he put aside the first piece and settled the second one on the music stand instead. “I felt that you might choose this one, Maglor. I've been practicing it, the fingering is quite tricky in the passage here,” and he pointed out the troublesome area. 

“Yes, I can see that. How were you choosing to attack it, Sire?” 

“I went like,” and he demonstrated. “Then I did this, and right here. Here is where I ran into a problem. If I keep my hand in this register I have a long stretch to the one note here. But if I move my hand up on the neck for the one note, I loose the tone on the back notes.” 

“I see. Why not try moving your hand up for the one note, but then change the register on the third string group instead of dropping down to the second? Like this,” and I demonstrated my thought. 

“Yes! Yes that will do nicely. Let me try that.” He quickly ran through the difficult passage with the new fingering, slipping back down the lute's neck for the next passage. His fingers flew, his eyes were bright and his smile never ended. This was the King Henry who had entranced his people when he was a much younger man, before health and political issues had brought him low. 

The storm intensified, the rain providing a counterpoint rhythm to our own, and we played the new piece together in harmony, my lute playing a secondary melody to his main one. Towards the end of the piece and our time together, he looked at me with a twinkle in his eye and started to pick up the tempo. By the time we finally got to the end of the piece we were picking the strings as quickly as we could, a sheen of sweat was on his forehead, and I had snapped my lower F string. We finished with a flourish, looked at each other, and burst out laughing. The rain had suddenly stopped and the sun had come out. As I stood up to bow and take my leave, I glanced out of the window. 

“Sire, come and look. Surely God Himself has smiled upon your playing today. See? A rainbow has come to visit your Grace,” and I pointed out of the window towards the eastern close. 

He rose from his chair with difficulty which I studiously ignored. If he wanted assistance, he would ask for it. To offer would be to give insult. But he was obviously in pain from his leg ulcer today. He gamely limped over to the window and threw open the casement. As we stood there together breathing in the fresh air and looking at the colors that were almost painted onto the heavens, I thought that nothing could be much better. 

Within a year, however, I barely escaped England ahead of the King's men, sailing to seek refuge from his long-time enemy, Carlos V, the Holy Roman Emperor. As I said, King Henry's moods were mercurial.


	9. On Eagle's Wings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor has always wanted to fly since he was very young. Now he witnesses the first successful flight by the Wright Brothers and thoughts of the future crowd his mind.

I always wanted to fly. I watched the eagles soar around Taniquetil, the hawks catch the updrafts over Tirion, and the sea birds cruising above the shoreline near Alqualondë, and always my spirit wanted to be with them and see through their eyes. 

I remember pointing out the eagles to my father when I was quite young and we had been summoned to meet with Lord Manwë. “Atar,” I had said, “can I fly?” I had been watching the birds so intently that I actually walked directly into a tree, causing both Lord Manwë and Lady Varda to laugh softly. 

“Would you like to see the great birds closer?” Lord Manwë asked me. I nodded assent with enthusiasm, as only a young elf could, and he took me up in his arms. “We will return shortly, Fëanáro. Such curiosity should be satisfied.” My Atar, although I suspect he was not pleased, remained behind while the Vala carried me through various rooms of his mansion, finally stopping at a lavishly-furnished room with a high, overhanging balcony just off to the side. 

I spared little attention to the accouterments of the room; my focus was on the wide open air on the other side of the balcony railing. Lord Manwë, knowing far better than I how impulsive young elves could be, held on to me tightly as he walked onto the suspended platform. He summoned one of his eagles to perch on the railing in front of me. Anyone else would have humbly requested the presence of such airy royalty. Lord Manwë commanded the bird to present itself to us. It was a lesson that I took to heart and one that I remembered many bitter years later. 

I was still held tightly by the Vala, but stretched out my hand to the eagle with glee. “Can I fly? I want to see.” I turned my head back to Lord Manwë. “Can I fly, please?” 

“Nay, little one, it is not in the nature of your people to fly and the eagles are not beasts of burden. Yet, from this tall perch you can see somewhat of what they see as they soar in the air above us.” 

I looked out over the mountain peaks and sheltered valleys that were spread out beneath the platform, and was allowed to stroke the sturdy feathers of the bird. The eagle was surprisingly gentle with me, even exchanging a few words with me. As it turned to leave us, it glanced sharply in my direction, preened under his wing pulling out a single feather, and put it gently into my hand. “Hold onto this gift of flight, young Macalaurë, and use my quill later in your life to allow your notes to soar as high as I and my brethren do. We shall be watching you as you grow, for in your heart you are one of us.” The eagle spread his magnificent wings and launched from the railing. My breath caught from the beauty of the calculated fall and swift rise that followed. Long afterwards I used the eagle’s quill to write the _Noldolantë_ , the composition which I am most famed for, that stirring vocal poem of the tragedy of my family and my people. 

But it was the drop and subsequent rising of the eagle’s flight that I was recalling today as I walked the dunes of the Outer Banks, near the town of Kill Devil Hills. I heard an engine and excited voices coming from the other side of the sand dune, closer to the ocean. Walking up towards the crest, I saw the most extraordinary thing on the other side – a construct of wood and fabric, powered by an engine that drove a propeller similar to what you might find on a boat. The entire machine was steered by a young man and it was actually ten feet above the ground. The entire time aloft was short, less than a full minute, but I could see clearly that these two ebullient young men had the right of it. I could foresee that they would, if they continued honing and improving their machine, be able to conquer heavier-than-air mechanized flight. My thoughts moved back to my far past and Taniquetil once more and I smiled. Maybe someday soon I will finally have my wish for flight fulfilled after all.


	10. The Maid of Orléans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor and his companion Denis are touring North-central France and visit one of the many museums dedicated to Joan of Arc

“I met her once,” Maglor said to Denis. The two lovers were touring one of several museums dedicated to Joan of Arc while on a winter trip through north-central France. Denis shook his head, still uncomfortable with Maglor's immense age. He had only been told of his lover's immortality recently. 

“Michel, you are joking, yes? How could that be possible, she lived long ago, in the time of Charles VII.” 

“I was attached to the Dauphin's court as one of several minstrels and happened to be in the room when she came to beg his permission to break the Siege of Orléans. She was a small person, but magnetic and compelling. She had the ability to look directly through people and it tended to make men nervous.” 

“Was she as young as they claim in the histories?” 

“Oh yes, she was sixteen when she first met the Dauphin and stood no taller than 1.5 meters. Charles ordered her properly equipped, both armed and horsed. The forges worked many hours to cut and rivet existing plate small enough to fit her size. 

“She had no experience with war horses, indeed with any but farm horses, but she walked right up to the skittish stallion and he calmed immediately, accepting her will. It was something to see. Horses trained for war can be as deadly as the weapons carried by their riders, but this one practically rolled over like a puppy.” 

“Of course, she was successful in breaking the Siege,” Denis said as they stopped in front of a painting of The Maid. 

“After she received Church sanction she moved quickly to Orléans, arriving on April 28th, 1429. She led two decisive battles, or rallied knights to her cause according to some who may have been jealous, but whatever her position, she succeeded in winning two important battles against the English on May 4 and May 7. After a standoff on May 8, the English left. It was a lightning victory and ended a siege that had started on the 12th of October the prior year.” 

The two men walked out of the museum and back into the weak afternoon sunshine. Perching atop a nearby stone wall, Maglor continued. “Although the Hundred Years War encompassed many battles and several periods of peace, she was a pivotal rallying point and a bold officer in the Dauphin’s army. After Orléans she insisted on capturing the bridges leading to Reims which allowed the coronation of Charles VII to proceed in that ancient and traditional location, cementing his claim to the throne. Shortly afterward she was fighting another battle against the English and was captured. Church officials who supported the English cause sentenced her to death by fire. She was burned at the stake when she was nineteen years old.” 

“And were you there for that?” 

“What? No. How could I be there if I was with Charles?” Maglor asked, laughingly. “I might have skills, but to be two places at once, that is far beyond my abilities. Now, let's find a glass of wine and raise a toast to the Maid of Orleans.” 

As the two men continued walking down the road, an errant breeze sprang up, caressing Maglor's head and giving a soft kiss to his cheek. He smiled and nodded his head acknowledging the gift.


	11. Memories and Salt Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor leaves his Chateau in France to play several concerts in Ireland. He and his companion Denis sail on the Titanic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.

Denis and I left the chateau early on that Good Friday; Horace was up on the box driving the matched greys and coach to the train station while the two of us sat comfortably inside. The foggy day was broken by the silvered ribbon of the nearby river. 

“Some rain would be good. With luck we will have a banner crop this year,” I said as we passed the estate vineyards. 

I looked to my right and my glance softened. Denis has been my companion/lover for more than ten years now. His soft brown hair is wavy, his deep green eyes pierce my soul, and he has the most kissable lips I have tasted in several centuries. That gorgeous head is perched atop a body that is equally praiseworthy. 

He is a talented painter who can be as intense and focused when he is producing his artwork as I can be when working on my music. Fortunately we are rarely both drowning in our arts at the same time, so one of us can usually rouse the other to eat, sleep, and make love. It is a very French thing, to make love; other places I have lived in the past were not so poetic. But France had offered Denis to me, and I had gratefully accepted her gift. 

“Are you excited, Michel?” his rich contralto asked quietly, his tone betraying his own anticipation. 

“Not really.”

“But it’s supposed to be the most luxurious ocean-liner ever made with no expense spared, and it is unsinkable.” 

“Feh, any ship can sink,” I responded. My thoughts jumped back to a night of fires on the water at Losgar for one split second, then quickly moved away again, discomfited. “I wish you would tour Ireland with me,” I continued. “Come with me and enjoy the music and the green hills of Erin. It would only be for two weeks, and then we could continue on to New York together.” 

“Michel, you know I must go on ahead.” This was an argument that we had repeated often over the past few weeks and our positions were firmly entrenched, yet I could not stop my attempts to change his mind. 

“I have a meeting scheduled with Arabelle for the 15th,” he continued. “She wants to feature my artwork in a one-man show, but if I am late, I will have lost my opportunity to break into the New York art scene. As you say, it is only two weeks and I will be at the pier to meet you when you dock at the end of the month.” 

A sudden and incomprehensible fear made me shiver. I pulled him to me and kissed him hard, forcing his mouth open and tasting him. He wrapped his arms around me and deepened our kiss. I pulled back, shaken by whatever had impelled me to bruise his lips, but I couldn't regret it. I put a lighter tone into my bearing and vocal tone. I didn’t want to pass my unformed fears on to him. 

“Well, love, let’s enjoy this short trip, then. We have a private compartment on the train, and I booked one of the best First Class suites on the ship.” I leaned over and kissed him again, with tenderness this time. 

He broke away breathless with dancing eyes. “I hear that the ocean can be a wonderful aphrodisiac.” 

“Do you need one, love?” 

“No, never with you, Michel,” he murmured as his lips touched mine once again. 

“Messieurs, we have arrived,” called Horace from above. We extracted ourselves from our embrace, checked over each other to be sure we looked presentable, and buttoned our overcoats to hide our mutual erections. Climbing out of the coach we walked towards the train platform. Horace and the porters would see to our luggage. 

A shrill whistle announced the coming train which clattered past us, stopping in a cloud of steam. “This way, messieurs,” the Conductor bowed and showed us to our compartment. “As soon as your luggage has been delivered, ah! Here it is now. We will be leaving soon.” He asked for our tickets and punched them. 

Soon our various parcels, packages and trunks had been distributed in our compartment and we were on our way. Denis leaned out of the window, laughing. “Au revoir, Champagne. We will be back in a few months.” With a smile on his face he waved good-bye as we pulled out of the station. We were on our way, ready for our latest adventure. 

I looked at Denis suggestively. He licked his lips and began pulling down the window shades while I locked the door. We then continued what we had started in the carriage, proving that the rocking motion of the rails was conducive to a very erotic encounter. Denis then turned away from me to sleep for a while before dinner. I sat across from him, watching the shadows cast through the window shades paint his nude body with glorious stripes of light and shade. 

I caught my breath, he was so beautiful. I have known many lovers in my long life, but Denis was special to me. Many times I had moved on, leaving my lovers behind me. Denis was one of the rare ones, a love that I wanted to stay with for as long as the Powers allowed. If I was fortunate, I would be able to love him and be with him until his death. I shrugged my shoulders. Falling in love with the second-born was always tragic, yet I had found that I could not go through life alone. The long ages of my life would echo unbearably without loving companionship. 

We dressed for dinner and shared an excellent meal with passable wine. 

“Could we bring the bottle back to our compartment,” Denis asked me, a teasing look in his eyes. 

“Of course, if that is what you want,” and arranged for us to take the bottle and two glasses back with us. Within a few minutes we were in our compartment again, glasses of wine in our hands. Denis then proceeded to teach me why he had wanted the wine. The bed was small, but it was perfectly adequate. 

The next day, April 6th, we arrived in Paris. The Conductor assured us that the train would not leave until 8:00 pm so we paid a porter to watch over our room and left to enjoy the City of Lights. 

“Denis, stop feeding the ducks. They’ll end up too fat, unable to waddle, even directly next to the shore,” I laughingly scolded him as he gave the last bits of our pastry to the ducks swimming in the Seine. He turned to face me, shrugged his shoulders in a Gaelic fashion and returned to the table and his coffee. A duck followed him into the avenue for a short distance, but was it easily convinced to return to the river. Later we walked in Montmartre, looking at various art galleries and arguing mildly about the new styles of artwork as evidenced in works by Picasso and Matisse. Denis loved this more modern style of artwork, but I was a bit more hesitant and old-fashioned in my views. 

We were back on the train with ample time to stretch out with a glass of wine before it pulled out of the station. In two more days we would be in Cherbourg. “I want this trip to go on forever,” I thought as we made love again that night. Denis was aggressive and I blissfully gave myself up to his talented hands. At least I would have something wonderful to remember while we were separated. 

-0-0-0-0-

With a mournful whistle, the train pulled in to the Cherbourg station. We were scheduled to spend one day in this seaside town across the English Channel from Southampton. 

“The ship is too large for our harbor. We will be taking passengers to the dock in groups. Two tenders will ferry passengers out to the ship. You are scheduled for the second tender, tomorrow April 10th at 6:30 pm,” the hotel Manager informed us. 

We made sure our trunks and clothing were put into our room and shrugging into our overcoats, left the hotel to walk along the shore. I watched Denis run towards some of the shore birds with his coat unbuttoned and flapping, causing them to take flight, complaining loudly. His antics caused me to laugh lightly, in spite of my general depression. 

Seeing the ocean always depresses me, so many bad times in my life have been spent at the edges of Lord Ulmo’s realm. Looking out at the surf, I became caught in my memories – the burning of the ships at Losgar, the sacking of Sirion, and that final futile effort to fulfill our Oath when Maedhros and I stole the Silmarils after the War of Wrath - so many tragic and bloody times. Although I was not conscious of the tears on my cheeks, Denis saw them when he returned to where I stood immobile. He stepped in front of me. 

“Beloved,” his soft tones penetrated my thoughts. His hands came up to my face, gently cupping it and wiping my tears away. “Beloved,” he whispered and kissed me gently, lovingly. I was suddenly undone. 

He held me, murmuring into my ear, while I wept into his broad shoulder. After a short time I was under control again and pulled away from him. “Beloved,” he said again. “What has you on edge? Why are you so upset?” 

One last time I tried. “Please, Denis, my love. Leave the boat at Queenstown with me. Please.” He shook his head, wordless, and touched his forehead to mine. 

Ruthlessly I pushed my tears back, and I resolved to make the next day a happy one for us. “Then come,” I said steadily. “I promise I will not mention it again,” and taking his hand into mine, I led the way down the beach to a little cafe where we ate meat pies washed down with a dry red wine. 

We made love slowly that night, as if we had never touched each others' bodies before. I explored Denis with my tongue; I wanted to taste all of him. I nipped him gently, and a few times with a bit more force. He wanted me to take him and I complied – our physical coupling was welcome to me because it anchored me to this time, this place, this love. 

We stayed in our room until mid-afternoon. Then, after getting dressed and arranging for our luggage to be cared for, we left for the steamer. Walking onto the Nomadic as part of Group II, we looked west towards the deep water, and there she was, the RMS Titanic. Her four slanted smokestacks stood proudly above her white decks. She practically gleamed in the late afternoon sunshine. I glanced over at Denis; he had a broad smile on his face. 

A short time later we were finally on board Titanic. I had to admit she was sumptuous, fine glass and hardwoods were used throughout the upper levels. We went to find our cabin and noticed that most of Denis’ luggage had been put below decks in storage. 

Dressed formally for dinner, we walked behind the central staircase into the Reception Room, and then into the First Class dining room. We were shown to our table and spent a very pleasant evening sharing a well-cooked meal with the others seated around our table. Denis was quite taken with Mrs. Guggenheim who sat on his right and was flirting quite outrageously with him, her husband smiling at her antics from his chair on her other side. I spoke with Mrs. Brown who was seated on my left, a most fascinating and plain-spoken woman. We called it an early night and returned to our stateroom. I will not share the particulars of our last night together, it remains in my memory – a treasured night that I rarely indulge in revisiting, but that is almost sacred to me in a fashion. 

The next morning we stopped at Queenstown, Ireland and I was one of only seven people who departed the ship. Titanic's horn sounded deeply and it began to pull out into the open ocean. I turned to watch it leave, my eyes focused on only one figure. I watched Denis standing at the rail until the ship was a small blip in the distance. Already I could hardly wait for two weeks to pass before I would board a steamer to New York City. I left the dock to catch my train to Kilkenny. 

-0-0-0-0-

My booking agent, Darby, had scheduled four concerts for me before I would arrive in Belfast. I started in Kilkenny, and then swung west to Limerick, then east again for two nights in Dublin, and finally north to Belfast. I unpacked my harp and spent my time on the train practicing, the familiar motions and tunes helping to push away my loneliness while the miles clattered away behind me. 

A few days later I was eating in a Dublin pub before catching my train to Belfast later that day. Suddenly I heard “Extra! Extra! Unsinkable Ship is Lost in North Sea. Titanic Destroyed, Cause Unknown!” My ears caught the word Titanic and suddenly I was on my feet, running out the door. 

A few moments later I was back, a newspaper clutched in my hands, scanning the scant amount of information as quickly as I could. “Denis,” I whispered as I sank into my seat. 

“How can I find out more information? My friend is on that ship, I must know more.” I blurted out, looking at the pub owner for answers. 

“There is a White Star Lines office in Belfast….” 

I threw down coin for the meal and left immediately to pack and catch the next train north. 

The next few weeks passed in a blur of fear and anguish. For several days I joined with hundreds of others outside the White Star Lines Belfast office, waiting for any information they might release to us. I sent thousands of prayers to the Valar although I knew they had turned their backs on me thousands of years before. A partial list of survivors was released on the 17th and I ran to read the pages like everyone else, hoping to see Denis’ name listed. But it wasn’t there. On the 23rd the first complete listing of survivors was posted and the last of my hope died. 

All I could see in my mind was that cocked head, those laughing green eyes, that hair which would never lie down properly, the flush in his cheeks when we kissed. Having backed up against a building wall, I found myself sliding down the rough boards, then burying my head in my knees and covering my head with my hands, I wept like a small child, unashamed of my grief. 

I have always picked up and moved on and my skills for survival didn't leave me now, but I went through the motions without feeling them. I telegraphed Arabelle telling her that Denis had gone down with the mighty ship. We would discuss more in detail at a later date; it was all I could bear just to send her word. 

I canceled the remainder of my concert dates and then began making my way to France via ferries, trains and a ship to cross the Channel. Finally I returned home, to the chateau. Once home, I wandered the hallways, always hearing a laugh from around the corner, or seeing his form cross the doorway ahead of me. 

In May ships were sent to recover bodies. My friends who were deeply concerned about me convinced me to stay in Champagne. So I sent Horace to Halifax instead. I wasn't eating and I was drinking too much, I had returned home an empty man. At the end of May when recovery operations were suspended, Horace returned home without Denis' body. I finally had no choice but to face the truth, Denis would never return to me. 

-0-0-0-0-

A knock came at my study door. “Monsieur Michel, a letter from America,” Horace's voice said from the hallway. 

Unlocking the door, I took the mail from the silver tray. “Merci,” I said while turning away, closing the door behind me. 

The letter, which I had thought would be from Arabelle, was penned in an unknown hand. I opened it curiously. 

“M Finner,

“Several months ago, my daughter and I stood on the deck of Titanic, panic-filled and shivering from the cold. A kind man came to my daughter and wrapped her in his woolen overcoat, fastening her life vest tightly over it. He showed me that he had pushed a letter deeply into the inside pocket and made me promise that I would mail it to the address he gave if I lived. I was crying, and swore that I would mail it if we survived as he helped us into a life boat. I think of this kind man every day and I know without doubt that he saved our lives that terrible night. 

“I fulfill my vow here and enclose his letter for you. I hope it helps to know that he was a true hero. I pray for him every day and will thank him until the day that I die. 

“Imogen Andresson and Katia  
Onamia, Minnesota  
USA”

I dropped the cover letter onto the desk, and took the interior note into my hand. It was water-stained and folded, and looked to have been written hurriedly. Trembling, I opened the page. 

“Beloved, I have little time to write this and pray that it will get to you. I only want to tell you that I love you. You have been the greatest gift I have ever received. If I was given the choice to live through this night but never to meet you, I would choose to die, because my life without you in it would be meaningless. I would not change a thing, my only love. Beloved, I pray that someday we may meet again. I carry you in my heart and I will die seeing you as my last vision, and saying your name with my last breath. I love you now and forever – Denis”

My tears splashed onto the letter and I gave myself up to my grief one final time. Then I stood up from my desk. I had one more task to perform. Not the funeral – an empty casket had already been laid to rest in the small plot next to the Chateau. No, I had a task that none could know of. 

Locking my study door, I went to the far wall where I opened a hidden compartment. Taking out a box, I took a small black book out of it and sat down at my desk, book in hand. 

The pages were well worn and made of vellum. There were many pages with neat columns of names, and many more that remained empty, awaiting their own entries. I looked through the pages carefully, one by one, reading each name. Piskar - I remembered a laugh that started in his very belly, rising through him like sunlight passing through a break in the clouds. Roland, my English archer. He was serious, not given to humor. His smiles were reserved for me alone. Wi Fu had been a delicate artist, a carver of wood. His fine touch had caused my skin to feel as if it was on fire. Sasha, my Russian noble. We had experienced a wondrous time at his dacha, but the Czar had decided he was a political threat and had him executed shortly afterward. I read each name, remembering all of the loves of my life and the many years that had passed since I began this record. 

I dipped my quill into the inkwell. Carefully I wrote “Denis – Champagne, France 1912” to the list. I would never forget him. I replaced the book in the box, adding his note to the loose contents. Everything went back into the wall compartment. As I closed the hidden door on my book, I closed that door to my heart. I had prayed to the Powers to love him and be with him until his death and in their own warped fashion, they had answered my prayer. 

I know that eventually I will recover and feel joy again. I know that I will find another love in the future. But I also know now how the ocean gets its salty water. It is through the tears of those who are forever separated by its deep waters. I turned off the light and left the room and my memories behind me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always appreciated.


	12. Standing With the Lion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor, working as an ambulance driver along the Western Front in WWI comes across one of the great early jazz musicians in the hospital and they form a friendship. After the war, Maglor comes to New York City’s district of Harlem to find his friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.

I was on a quest to find The Lion. My chateau in Champagne, France had been badly damaged by the War so I had gathered some things together planning to stay in the United States for a year or so while it was being repaired. I hadn’t been to New York City in more than fifty years and was happy to see that it had grown and developed a soul. I had only been here for a week and was already in love with its _joie de vivre_ and the never ending music rendered by its traffic, people, and pulse. What a city! 

As I mentioned, I was hunting up my friend Willie “The Lion” Smith. While serving in the War I was an ambulance driver. Willie was one of the men I took to the hospital in Boulogne. It was a long drive and in times when we had to wait before giving him his next dose of pain medication, we talked. It turned out he was a musician and actually part of the Regimental Band, but he had caught a shell while getting a bit too close to no man’s land. 

I visited him now and again while he was recovering in the hospital, and found that it had an upright piano. I wheeled him up to it one afternoon and his eyes lit up. Sitting at the keyboard he started pounding the keys in a musical rhythm that I had never heard before. He said it was called ‘slide piano’. When he was due to be shipped out he gave me his address in Harlem and told me to look him up when I came over. It took a bit of time and pounding the pavement, but I think I’ve finally located him. 

The buildings are old, but I feel their life – mothers talking between themselves, voices singing while doing odd jobs, parks where children are playing. Although the population seems varied, the area I’m in right now is mostly Negro. I stand out – tall, skinny, and pale white. 

The address that I was given is right across the street. I start to look closer. The brownstone looks well kept. There are flower boxes at many of the windows and the scent of spicy cooking wafting on the breeze. The tinkling sound of a piano catches the air and I follow it. I stand in front for a moment, listening to the music making the air pound with a new excitement, a new rhythm; syncopated notes, a tripled bass, fingers jumping over the keyboard almost faster than the eye can see. Jazz. Smiling, I begin to climb the first few steps. 

Two large black men come down and I stop. 

“I’m looking for Willie Smith.” 

“What business you got wid him? You jus’ go on down the road, white boy. Ain’ no call for you to be hangin’ ‘round here.” 

Shaking my head, I sigh. Just one more bump in the road. Clambering back down the steps, I open my case and pull out my horn. The two men look at each other, then at me. I stand in the sidewalk and I begin to play. 

I put my heart into it, because that’s the only way that music should be played, and I play counterpoint to the piano I hear dancing several floor above me. Soon a window at the top opens up and a familiar head emerges. 

“Michael? That you, boy? Well I’ll be goldarned. Come on up here right now. 4A. Damn. Michael, who would’a thought.” 

“Be right there, Willie,” I called up, waving at him, horn in hand. I grab my case under my arm and walk past the two bemused men into the house. 

The hallway was nondescript and dark. The sounds of the piano were stronger now. Someone was playing those ivories like a lover and I was itching to play along. I ran up the stairs, two by two, all the way to the top, stopping at 4A. 

I raised my hand to knock just as the door opened in my face. 

“Michael,” sounded in my ear as I was suddenly embraced by a bear of a man. “Damn, Michael, so glad you made it over. Come in, meet the boys.” Keeping hold of my arm, he pulled me into the apartment. 

“Boys, this here’s Michael Finner, great horn player. We met over in France. He held half of the litter that got me to the hospital. He’s great at the keyboards, but he’s amazing on that horn of his. Amazing musician.” He turned back to me. 

“Michael, meet Fats Waller on the keyboard and that’s Duke Ellington over there in the corner waiting his turn. On the horn over there, that’s Larry, then Jimmy on the sax and Dermont on the trombone. Take your horn and squeeze in. 

“We’ve got a rent party coming up tomorrow, so we’re practicing a bit. Tomorrow will be serious, today is just for fun.” 

“Any rules I should know about?”

“Naw, not really. Jump in when you feel moved to, play counterpoint to the keyboard player. Usually we’ll move around to everyone so that each player gets a lick.” 

I nodded and put my stuff in the corner, taking off my jacket and folding it neatly above my horn case. Grabbing my horn, I joined the other brass players in the corner. “Michael,” I introduced myself, and shook hands with Larry, Jimmy and Dermont. 

Fats was wrapping up on the keyboard, suddenly he shouted “Take it, Larry,” and Larry raised his horn and blew. I was transported. The notes moved up and down, jumping around the like a bright light hitting here and then moving there, that horn bopped, and wailed and dug into my soul. The lead changed down all of us and I got my turn to play too. The Duke took over at the keyboard, then Willie. Meanwhile, Larry, Jimmy, Dermont and I played rings around each other, chasing our tails like a pack of dogs. 

I didn’t make it to the Cutting contest* the next night, I figured I wouldn’t be around for much longer and didn’t want to take a job from someone who needed it. But I played with Willie and as many of the other guys as often as I could, and stayed in touch with them for many decades, long after I had returned to France. I often wondered if I would have been hired if I had tried out at the Cutting contest. Would black artists have been accepted sooner if they had a white artist playing with them? I’ll never know. 

The joys of stride piano and later swing and pure jazz have stayed with me to this day. I’ve even transcribed Willie’s “Fingerbuster” and the Duke’s “Sophisticated Lady” for my harp. I met up with the Duke on his European Tour of 1933/34 and played on and off with him then. He visited me in my chateau and we were up until the dawn playing piano and other instruments and pushing our music as far as we could. Willie and I corresponded until his death in 1973. 

 

A/N and Recommended Listening

*Cutting contests were musical battles, rather like today’s American Idol, and still exist in jazz improve today when segments of music are traded back and forth. They were often held at “rent parties” in local Harlem homes. These were parties with an entrance fee, the monies collected were used to pay the rent. They continued through into the 1940’s and featured such players as those mentioned in this story as well as Count Basie, Art Tatum, Harry Gibson, Marlowe, and Claude Hopkins. 

**Stride Piano Videos -**

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=stride+piano&view=detail&mid=8AAA4CC7FBBE3924673E8AAA4CC7FBBE3924673E&first=41

http://www.videosurf.com/video/stephanie-trick-plays-handful-of-keys-by-fats-waller-stride-piano-118530401

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=stride+piano&view=detail&mid=1BE810D1E30491F84D311BE810D1E30491F84D31&first=0

 

**Swing Piano Videos**

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=swing+piano&view=detail&mid=A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222&first=41

http://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=swing+piano&view=detail&mid=A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222A1F2C0230AEE8C3AC222&first=41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always appreciated.


	13. A Sickness Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When witnessing the test firing of the first atomic bomb, Maglor is hit with feelings that bring his memories back to the devastation of Doriath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.

Maglor shielded his eyes from the sudden and brilliant light that split along the horizon. Looking forward from the small hillock he had secreted himself behind, he stared aghast at the churning mass of destructive power that was now flowing upwards into the blue New Mexican sky. He had a sick, hollow feeling at the bottom of his stomach. As the mushroom cloud continued stretching high into the sky a momentary thought swept through him pulling him through both space and time. The last time he had felt despair like this had been many Ages ago and, although the circumstance and the scope were quite different, the feeling of his hopelessness was matched. 

It had been winter, when he and his brothers had attacked Doriath, continuing their fruitless quest to recover Lúthien's Silmaril. The air had been crisp and cold and the shed blood was hot, causing pink-tinted steam to momentarily rise from the bodies and the blood splashed stones. Later Maedhros had learned that Dior's young sons, Eluréd and Elurín had been abandoned in the snowy woods, to be food for wild animals or simply sacrificed on the cruel, cold anvil of winter. For days he and Maedhros had searched for the boys, but despair was the only thing that they succeeded in finding. When Maedhros finally made the decision to abandon the search, Maglor had felt a feeling of hopelessness that had not been matched until now. But looking at the mushroom cloud still stretching into the sky, he realized that instead of giving up on two young children, he was now giving up on the Second-born. 

His stomach churned as he turned away from the beautiful death. As he walked into the surrounding desert he prayed that this weapon of heat and horror would never be used, but knew that keeping it unused would prove to be impossible. Pandora's Box had been opened once again, and he wept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always appreciated.


	14. A New Straight Road

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor reads about the launch of Sputnik and speculates about the future use of space.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tolkien built the sand box; I only play with the bucket and shovel that he left for me. No money, profit or non, is made from the publication of this story.

I was sitting down in my chair at a table of a Parisian cafe. The waiter brought me a steaming cup of cafe au lait and a brioche, while I opened the newspapers I had purchased from the nearby kiosk to read. “Merci,” I said and settled down to my morning routine. I glanced at the newspaper. The headline of LeMonde caught my eye. 'Russians Launch Earth-Orbiting Satellite' 'Sputnik Orbits the Earth Every 90 Minutes'. Hmmmm .... That seemed worth reading. 

Settling down to my brioche and coffee, I began to read. “Sputnik ... Russian satellite … radio signals … possible uses for war…” I put the paper down in disgust. For war. Admittedly, World War II was not that far distant, and the Korean War had only ended slightly more than four years earlier. But here again was a wonderful scientific achievement that immediately was being speculated as appropriate for waging war. The warlike psyche of mankind had taken the airplane, one of my favorite inventions, and made it into bombers and fighters. They had taken the beautiful ships of Cirdan and the Teleri, expanded them, built them from metal and armed them with large guns and weapons, following in the footsteps of Sauron and Ar-Pharazôn those many Ages ago. Too many of the amazing inventions of the 20th century to this point had been warped into being used for conflict. I shivered. 

I turned my mind to my own dilemma. I was tied to this Earth for as long as the Valar desired. But how long would that be? “Is the Straight Road visible from space?” I wondered. “Could I perhaps go home again?” I returned to my coffee and newspaper, my wishful thought never spoken aloud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always appreciated.


	15. The Performance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maglor, feeling the need for a change of venue, accepts a position as a visiting music instructor at Battle Abbey School. This leads to a spontaneous performance that will long be remembered by those lucky enough to hear it.

The Performance

 

It was 1962 and I was depressed - again.  Depression is not unusual for me, sometimes I feel that I have had more tragedy than joy in my life, but I was finding it harder and harder to put forth the energy to pull myself out of my dark spiral.  It seemed to be impossible to turn my thoughts from Denis, my long lost love.  I had last seen him standing on the deck of the RMS Titanic almost 50 years before. 

 

The newspapers and television news programs were filled with two main stories right now; the escalating aggression in the Southeast Asian country of Vietnam, and the upcoming 50th anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic.  I felt bombarded and suddenly craved a nearby cave in which to hide. 

 

I was living in the United States in the state of Ohio.  For the previous seven years I had been teaching music at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music, a highly respected general college with a strong emphasis on music.  I had been teaching Advanced Musical Theory, Composition, and giving private lessons on the harp and the lute to several gifted pupils.  It was work that I really enjoyed.  But I felt that it was time for a change.  I didn’t want to return to France or Italy yet, but I needed to run away from my memories again and go to a different part of the world. 

 

I had decided to leave my position, rather than renew my contract when the first semester ended.  This meant that I began 1962 as an unemployed musician, certainly not the first time I was between jobs during the long years of my life. 

 

As I returned to my small rental house from a long and aimless walk that Wednesday night, I picked up my mail from the box, putting it onto the entryway table when I entered the house.  After a small dinner I gathered the envelopes to sort through them, knowing that most of the mail was usually trash. 

 

Sometimes I would get letters from friends or from my property managers in Europe, but not today.  My French contact and I had been corresponding regularly since I had been approached about selling my Chateau near Champagne, France.  I had told him to pass along the message that I was unwilling to sell.  Even though I could not currently bear to live there since I was still seeing Denis around every corner as I walked across the grounds or down the hallways of the house, I also could not bear to sell it and leave it permanently.  Denis' death had only happened fifty years before, a mere blink of an eye for an immortal, but the memories that we had made at the Chateau were too precious for me to leave it for long. 

 

I noticed an official-looking envelope nestled in the stack of advertisements and settled down in my overstuffed chair near the hearth to read it. 

 

‘Battle Abbey School, East Sussex, England, UK; what do they want?’  I opened the envelope and began to read the letter. 

 

“Dear Mr. Finner –

 

“My name is R. Chatsworth Mason and I am the President of the Battle Abbey School.  It has come to my attention that you recently decided to leave your current position as an Instructor of Music at the Oberlin Music Conservatory.  Please forgive my contacting you in this fashion, but I hope that what I have to offer may be of interest to you. 

 

“Battle Abbey School, located in East Sussex has been the recipient of a Legacy Bequest, allowing us to fund a Chair in our Music Department for a one-year Visiting Faculty Member.  As an acknowledged Master of the Celtic Harp and Lute, we feel that your unique skills would offer our students an opportunity to explore musical instruments which are rarely taught in this day and age.  The school is housed in a building that dates back almost to the time of William the Conqueror.  I and my Senior Staff feel that a course in Ancient Music and Instruments would be a perfect fit for us.  I would like to offer you this position beginning with the Fall, 1962 term. 

 

“If you think that this would be of interest to you, I ask that you please contact me at your earliest convenience.  The position would include a small separate residence which is on the school grounds and a generous stipend.  The requirements for the position are on the attached sheet. 

 

“I look forward to hearing from you and arranging to meet you in person for a formal interview soon. 

 

Yours truly,

R Chatsworth Mason, Esq.

President, Battle Abbey School”

 

I glanced over the requirements listed on the second page.  The list said that I would be required to tutor at least two Fifth or Sixth Form students for each of the two listed instruments.  I would also be required to participate in two general concerts sharing the stage with some of the other music teachers.  I would also have to give one solo concert for the students and faculty.  All concerts would be open to the general public as well as academic attendees.  None of the requirements seemed particularly onerous or out of the ordinary for the position. 

 

I sat in my chair holding the letter in my hand.  I had wanted to make a change, to go somewhere else that offered new challenges so that I wouldn’t get too maudlin and depressed.  Here was an opportunity.  I decided to phone R Chatsworth Mason the next morning and accept the position. 

 

-0-0-0-0-

 

Landing in London on the morning of the 11th of April, I was startled at how much larger it had grown since the last time I had visited.  I was met at the airport by a driver and car that had been sent by the college. 

 

“Mr. Finner?” a tall blonde walked towards me, arm outstretched ready to shake my hand.  “I’m Robert Aubrey, Assistant to the Dean of the College of Music.  Welcome to England.” 

 

“Thank you.  I’ve been here before, but it was a long time ago.  London has grown huge.” 

 

“Oh yes, London is like a weed, always growing and spreading out.  Let me have your luggage, the car is right around here.”  He led the way down a corridor and through a doorway into a parking lot. 

 

We had a pleasant drive south towards the East Sussex town of Battle.  It was a short drive through the town to approach the outbuildings of what was called Battle Abbey. 

 

I remembered the abbey itself, built on the site where Harold II had fallen, killed by an arrow through his eye.  His death had cleared the way for Duke William II of Normandy to become the King of England.  But the battlefield casualties had been extremely high and the Pope had ordered William to make restitution for those deaths by offering penance.  William had done this by building an Abbey dedicated to St Michael of Battle, and over time it became commonly known as Battle Abbey. 

 

I had watched the Abbey rise, stone by stone, since William had put me in charge of one of the work gangs almost one thousand years earlier.  I had spent more than eight years laboring there.  By the time the Abbey was finally finished in 1094, William was dead and his successor, William Rufus, was on the throne.  I had left the service of the King shortly after that, blending into the countryside of England, and had stayed away from politics for several hundred years. 

 

Mister Aubrey showed me to an apartment on the upper floor of the main building, and told me that I was scheduled to meet with the President of the school the next morning at 9:00 am.  After handing me an introductory packet of information, I was left alone to acclimate as I saw fit. 

 

I looked out over the grounds from my window.  I felt a need to return to the site where so many had died and honor my memories of William II and the battle that had taken place here.  I unpacked my harp and taking it with me, walked out of the building and onto the grassy sward.  Finding the plaque that marked the site where the altar had originally been placed, I sat down, closed my eyes, and I began to play. 

 

I have no idea how long I made music.  I played to honor the memory of all of the men who had fallen here.  I played to remember those warriors I had known through my life, starting with my grandfather, and father, and moving through to those who were currently fighting in various wars throughout the world.  And I played for the memory of Denis and those who had joined him in a watery death on this, the eve of that tragic anniversary.  I allowed my fingers to describe my sorrows and hopes, my loves and fears, and my loneliness. 

 

I finally stopped, placing my bleeding fingers on the strings to silence their hum.  Opening my eyes, I realized that the sun had set long ago and only Varda's stars lit the grassy field.  Then I became aware of the people, many people.  They were sitting silently around me, many were weeping quietly. 

 

One man stood up, walked towards me, bowed and quietly said “Thank you.”  A young couple from the other side then stood and repeated the actions of the first.  One by one each member of what had become a large audience who had joined me in my mourning came up to me, said a few words, and left, walking into the darkness.  The last three who came to me were Robert Aubrey, and two others he introduced as the President of the School and the Dean of the Music Department.  The President merely said, “I think we will consider this concert a most successful job interview.  I look forward to our discussion tomorrow morning.”  He bowed and stepped back.  The Dean and Robert bowed but said nothing.  Then the three turned and walked off, leaving me sitting next to the plaque in the ground. 

 

I sat there in the darkness, my cheeks wet from tears I had shed, and I felt drained, empty, and so very alone.  I stood up, grasped my harp, and walked towards my dark and empty room.  That night I dreamed once again of Denis and awoke feeling drowned in sorrow.  I was too familiar with that feeling of loss and loneliness.  It was the 12th of April, and 50 years earlier my love had died in the knife-like cold waters of the North Sea. 

 

Arising before dawn I walked the short distance to the River Brede.  I stood on a bridge that crossed the water and dropped flower petals into the lazy water.  It was time to let him go and admit that he would never be by my side again.  I finally felt as if I could begin to move on.  I would never forget him, but I could begin to cherish the memories of the good times instead of focusing on the pain of his death.  I had been offered a job to do something that I truly loved, teaching, and I could concentrate on music which was always my primary means of emotional expression.  I could regain my life. 

 

I breathed a small prayer of thanks that I had been allowed to share Denis' life and walked back towards Battle Abbey.  I had to start focusing on the positive.  I felt that my music and this beautiful location would go far towards helping me rediscover joy.  By the time I was in front of the President's door, I was smiling slightly.  Yes, I could do this. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always appreciated.


	16. Tunnel Rat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER IS RATED TEEN. Experience Vietnam as seen through the thoughts of Maglor during a mission. Maglor has been walking our Earth for long Ages and fought in 1000’s of wars. His life in Vietnam is a bit more unusual though.

I am too tall for this. But I am what they call ‘lanky’ in this era, and I have my elvish talents – I can see in almost total darkness and I have extremely acute hearing - I have a long history of survival too, although the Colonel wouldn’t know about that. My racial skills are proving useful in the tunnels, but … I am too tall for this job. 

I was supposed to be assigned as a medic. That’s dangerous enough. Medics fly into combat zones in Hueys, and then try to load the wounded while avoiding becoming another casualty. The next step is trying to keep the wounded alive through the flight back to home base while tracers and anti-aircraft rounds are going off all around. I’ve done quite a few Huey runs and so far I’ve been safe and my injured troops have lived. I’ve been lucky. 

Survival out here in the jungle isn’t a matter of skill it’s purely a matter of luck. The guy in the foxhole next to you who pokes his head up two seconds earlier than you gets popped, but you live on because you’re two seconds slower. Or maybe the platoon leader’s scouts missed a trip line which you were lucky enough to step over, but the guy five back wasn’t so lucky. More work for the medics then. 

More work for the medics always. War is about death – killing the person who is trying to kill you. I’ve battled in thousands of wars on this misbegotten and forgotten land of Middle Earth and it never changes. The weapons change, the ability to kill from longer and longer distances and with greater and greater ease and precision changes, but it still comes down to us versus them. At the end of it all, trying to save and put back together the bodies that have been pulled apart, are the medics. We have thousands of medics on the ground. Every patrol has someone qualified to slap a shot of morphine into a fellow, wrap a bandage and treat trauma wounds and jungle rot. But there’s a big difference between that kind of medicine and mine. 

I’m a healer and a darned good one. I could help in the hospital tents, and when I’m near them, I try to. But Command wants me here – wriggling my way through the narrow darkness – because I can find them. I can find the ones who are lost, and I can find the traps, the gas pockets, and the flooded sections. I don’t get lost, I bring my men back alive, I can find the wounded and the dead, and usually, I can get both the living and the dead out of these underground death traps. Other people can heal, not many others can find the missing in the tunnels. 

Cu Chi isn’t the only complex of tunnels. But it’s been around for a long, long time. They were using some of these tunnels back when they fought the French at Dien Bien Phu. The French were smart. They left. The US moved into their vacuum and decided to help the South fight this civil war. Everything for democracy. Democracy – PLEASE! The Command isn’t fighting for fucking _democracy_ , they’re fighting _against communism_. They don’t look at the long view. 

Governments come and go, but the people who live on the land are going to fight to keep their homes. Let the politicians talk. Their hot air won’t make a bit of difference in that long view. Men are dying here every day to achieve a victory that will never come, in a land where they have no roots. The people here want us out of Vietnam, if they are honest. They want a land without land mines, trip cords, and casual dead bodies. The people back home want us out of Vietnam too. Hell, _I_ want out of Vietnam too, but the North isn’t giving up and my tour isn’t over until late November. 

I’ve heard it said that they have more than 30 square miles in this tunnel system. When I think of how Command miscounts casualty and enemy numbers, I’ll bet that the tunnels are even bigger than that. We’re at the entrance now and I warn my guys to be as quiet as they can. No talking, minimal light. I tell them that I’ll lead and I arrange them in the order I want them deployed behind me. My two steadiest guys are positioned as Number One and Number Nine in my column. Number Ten is my brawn. He’ll be dragging the living and the dead back to the entrance for us. 

So I crawl into the tunnels to find our guys. We have five missing from a scouting group of rats who went in a few hours ago. The Lieutenant’s sent ten men with me. I shivered at that number, the same number of elves who went with Finrod when he was presented with the Ring of Barahir by Beren. I wish I had ten elves behind me. Even _one_ more elf would be a wonderful thing and I’d feel a bunch better about being alone in the dark mud with only humans behind me. Of course, Finrod and his men were uncovered by Sauron’s Song of Power, thrown into the dungeons of the werewolf’s lair in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and were all killed except Beren. In that case it was the human who lived and the elves that died. I’m just going to hope that my men and I don’t have a similar fate. But right now I’m going to find our missing troops, alive or dead. 

From early ‘67 through May that same year, two major military operations, Operation Cedar Falls and Operation Junction City, fell on the tunnels of Cu Chi. The US and its allies threw manpower and machine power such as had never been seen before on this small area northwest of Saigon. An army of bulldozers and more than 32,000 men flooded the land around Cu Chi, trying to knock these tunnels down. But here we are. The tunnels are still here, the Viet Cong are still here, and I’m still here. All that effort and nothing changed. 

It’s quiet in the tunnels. There are parts that most of the guys can stand up in. I can’t, I’m too tall. I make a quick signal to Number One, my point man. I’ve found our first missing grunt. He’s been stabbed through from one of the side hidey holes that the enemy uses. He’s still living, but his breathing sounds bad. I start him down the line. Number Ten will hand him off for us since we’re still close to our entry point. 

I tell the guys to stand pat while I look ahead for a minute. Moving silently down the tunnel, I come to a junction. That’s where our second missing soldier is, but dead. No chance of revival. I pull his body back and we leave it. When Number Ten gets back, he’ll drag the body out for us. 

I signal the rest about the intersection. No talking down here, sound carries. We move ahead towards the east. Once the boys are in the larger corridor of the junction, I move ahead again. There’s a turn and a dip – bad air mixed with gas, and body number three lies on the ground breathing in the gas. Or he did, but no more breathing for him. Looks like the VC in the side holes got him while he was slapping on his gas mask. Just past the gas, I find the fourth grunt, but he dies in my arms. Damn. I had hoped he could hold on long enough to get him to the entry and get him some help. The gas isn’t as much of a problem as the mask. You get fast putting them on, but it’s still a momentary distraction. In here a distraction can be the last thought of your life, mere seconds are all that lie between life and death. I get the first three guys and we move carefully. We reach the two bodies and pass them back, two of us for each one of them. I’m don’t sense or hear anyone ahead of us, so we backtrack to the intersection. Choosing to go north, I lead us on. 

Past the junction the tunnel constricts again. I’m back to crawling, the guys behind me are duck walking. Either way, it’s uncomfortable. I hope I can find the fifth guy quickly. I hear a soft whimper of pain ahead of me and quickly signal Number One to stop the line. I creep ahead slowly and find a floor trap. Nasty things, floor traps. They are covered lightly with a thin layer of bamboo and packed mud so they look like solid floor. But any weight on it and they collapse underneath you, throwing you onto spikes below. That’s where our fifth guy is, spikes in his leg and hand, but amazingly missing his chest. He's in pain though and lifting him off the spikes won't be a walk in the park. I slap some morphine into him. It'll help push the pain away a bit. We'll gag him as we pull him off to keep the sound down. 

On my way back to the guys I run into one of our other tunnel guests, a snake – poisonous variety of course. A quick flick of my hunting knife and it’s wriggling in pieces on the floor. I bring Numbers One and Two up with me to the floor trap. Pushing a shirt and my leather gloves between the injured grunt's teeth, we pull his hand and leg off the spikes. It's painful, but his involuntary screams of pain are muted through the gag. Then he loses consciousness and our job is suddenly easier again. I slap some quick pressure bandages on him, but we’ve got to get him out quickly. The stakes of the trap are nasty but he'll likely survive. The tunnels just became his ticket home. The morphine helps. I’m just glad that poppy-based pain relieving drugs are still as effective as when I first used them while Morgoth still walked the earth. 

We’re back at the entryway. All told, fifteen men – three dead, two injured, and nine grunts sent to find them - and one elf, a tunnel rat. We all got out though, living and dead alike, and as I pull myself out of the tunnel, I reflect. ‘When Morgoth still walked the earth.’ What a laugh. Morgoth might have been thrown out into the Void, but he still walks. Evil is still here. 

 

A/N – I am well aware that in this story Maglor is not using the more “upper-class” vocabulary and manner of speech that I normally use for him. I feel that since he is blending into a human environment, especially one where people are naturally suspicious and are carrying high-powered weaponry, that he would prefer to fit in as much as possible, which would include changing his thought patterns to be appropriate cadence for his situation. I hope that his stream-of-consciousness adventuring within this alternative speech pattern does not throw too many people off the story. 

Thanks to Surgical Steel for her invaluable help in determining reasonable reactions to both injuries and trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are always appreciated.


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